


Orlesian Red

by Androktones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bondage, Cullenlingus, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Sitting, One Shot, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4493325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Androktones/pseuds/Androktones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evelyn Trevelyan’s inexperience in the bedchamber is making her uncomfortable. Over a bottle of wine with Dorian, the pair hatch a plan involving a certain commander and a length of scarlet silk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orlesian Red

"Orlesian Red"

“So, dear cousin, tell me something?”

Trevelyan eyes Dorian over the rim of her wine glass. The Tevinter mage sprawls on the couch in the Inquisitor’s chambers and she sits on the floor before him, feet stretched towards the crackling fireplace. Their half-finished chess game lies on a small wooden table, forgotten.

“I am _not_ telling you my middle name, Dorian, no matter how much you whine.”

Hand flapping in the air he replies dramatically, “oh, nothing so sordid as _that_. I’m much more interested in how things are progressing with your dashing Templar.”

“Ex-Templar.”

“Yes. Him. Shining, golden hair, broad chest, delectable scar, strong thighs…”

She laughs despite herself and takes another sip of the rich, red wine which Dorian favors in cold weather.

“Umm, they are going…very well, I would say. He’s sweet.”

Dorian’s eyes practically roll out of his skull.

“Sweet? _Sweet?_ Dear, if you don’t start giving me more than ‘sweet’ I am never sharing from my private Tevinter stock again.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me. Now spill.”

Evelyn feels her cheeks grow warm and takes a gulp from her glass.

“Ah, well, we first…ahem…after Halamshiral.”

“You mean you first consummated your relationship? Made love? Became the beast with two backs? Fucked like nugs? That last one’s a Fereldan idiom; I quite like it…”

“You’re going to be _wearing_ your wine, you ass!” she exclaims, head falling back against the couch cushions.

“Right, right, sorry. And so?”

“And so…we’ve been doing that. A few times, but it is very difficult to find time and – sweet Maker, _why_ am I telling you this?!”

“Because I am charming and bewitching and your friend. Also, if you don’t, I will personally paste the lewd drawings Sera has been making of you and Cullen all over the barracks.”

Her head thumps against her chest as it falls. “…I hate you.”

He laughs. “No you don’t. I am un-hateable. But _do_ go on.”

She stands and stalks over to the window where she can see the commander’s tower, glowing golden and warm against the drifting snow flurries and the starlight. With her fingertip she traces the outline of the crumbling peaked roof against the frosted glass.

“Well, I just…I’m not _experienced_ , Dorian. I couldn’t be, really, with my mother keeping such a close watch over my sisters and I, and then I was packed off to the Chantry. I can’t ask her, certainly – she’d be _scandalized_. She’s trying to marry me off, now that my position as Inquisitor makes their financial support unnecessary, and a-” she makes finger quotes “‘dalliance’ with a Fereldan would lower my brideprice considerably. Cosette’s just like Mama, Marie is on her honeymoon, and Tatiana can’t keep a secret to save her own life.”

Spinning, she sinks onto the cushions beside Dorian.

“In any case, I’ve read some books from Cassandra, and Sera – well, she won’t stop trying to make demonstrations with fruit, or with a cucumber, and once, a cinnamon bun – but I just wish…oh _hell_ ,” Evelyn finishes, dropping her head into her hands and wishing for the floor to swallow her up. She falls through fade rifts all the time; surely one can open when she actually _wants_ it to?

Dorian isn’t laughing anymore (she might kill him, regardless), but he pats her hand only a little awkwardly.

“Sweetest Evelyn, is that _all_? I mean, hardly the salacious details I was looking for, but beggars can’t be choosers. Now, I think I can help.”

She peeks at him from between her fingers.

“If your help involves setting something on fire, I think I will pass.”

“Hush! Drink your wine,” he says, refilling her glass to the very top.

* * *

Easing the side door open, Trevelyan slips into Cullen’s tower.

From above, she hears the tapping of Cullen’s straight razor against the porcelain basin, and the faintest scent of soap drifts down to where she stands. For a moment she considers sneaking out into the courtyard again. She is brave _now_ , however,thanks to Dorian and his special Tevinter grapes, and she cannot be sure she will be later. She is leaving for the Emerald Graves tomorrow with Dorian, Sera, and Iron Bull, and they will probably be gone a few weeks. What will a few more weeks do, but make the feelings she needs to explain bigger and more complicated?

So she calls out, “Cullen, I’m heading up,” puts a foot on the first rung of the ladder, and begins to climb.

The flickering candles and wall sconces caress the bare skin of Cullen’s back where he stands at the washbasin, straight razor in hand. Evelyn catches his tawny eyes in the mirror’s reflection, and the corner of his lips quirk up in a brief smile before he turns back to his task. She can only barely hear the whisper of the blade over his stubbled cheek.

Dogged and delicate in this, as in all things, she thinks, padding over to where he stands.

“Good evening, Evelyn,” he murmurs, rinsing the razor and making another pass over the arc of his cheekbone. She doesn’t speak, not yet, but she presses her lips and then her cheek against the warm expanse of Cullen’s back as she wraps her arms around his waist. She kisses one of his scars, arcing below the ridge of his shoulder blade; the skin is raised and smooth against her tingling lips.

Coccooned in this warm, golden tower, with the scent of parchment and leather and shaving soap, the sound of Cullen’s even breathing and the rhythmic motions of his arm, Evelyn lets her eyes drift shut while she waits for him to finish. In her mind’s eye she can see his fingers, slender but strong, and she remembers how they look on the pommel of his sword, delicately wrapped around a quill, tapping one his chess pieces against the edge of the board, spreading across the skin of her neck, her breasts, her thighs and _up_. Heat pools in her belly at the thought.

When she hears the razor shut with a quiet, smooth click she kisses the back of his neck before stepping away and catching his amber eyes. 

 “Cullen,” she says, “I was talking to Dorian…”

“Oh, no,” he says, though his eyes are smiling, “about what?”

Evelyn leans against the bedframe and watches as her lover deliberately folds his towel, looping it over the hook beside the porcelain basin. She stops worrying her lower lip long enough to murmur, “about how I want to be…better, here, with you, when we’re…”

His voice is sweet honey. “Intimate?”

The smooth, dark timber makes her shudder. “Yes. You’re so wonderful at it, and I’m not,” she whispers, feeling her cheeks flush redder than Cullen’s cape, lying draped across the foot of the bed.

Cullen’s brows furrow into a frown. “Don’t be foolish. You _are_ wonderful and, as they say, practice makes perfect,”

He steps away from the mirror, reaching for her, and she darts just beyond his questing fingers.

“Well, I asked Dorian for advice in any case, and I would like to…try something, with you, if that’s alright.”

His arms extend, seeking her again, and again she steps away, a few paces back, and his brows arc deeper in consternation. Gathering her daring, Evelyn pulls out Dorian’s gift from its hiding place in her waistband. Holding it aloft, the length of narrow scarlet silk drifts, fluttering, between her parted palms.

“Cullen, I would like to…I mean, if it is okay, I know that…I know some awful things happened at the Fereldan Circle, and I don’t want to push you, but – _Maferath’s balls, I’m no good at this_ \- you are always having to _lead_ , here, between us, because I’m not very experienced and…”

She trails off, ventures a look, and she hopes he isn’t completely disgusted by the suggestion inherent in the red fabric trembling in her fingers. It’s certainly not _proper_. Cullen’s expression, however, is mostly bemused, but she thinks (hopes?) that she detects a spark of interest in the dark gold depths of his eyes.

“Evelyn, are you asking…do you want to tie me up?”

 “Yes. Please. I mean, if it is all right.”

He seems to mull the idea over, measuring it, testing it like a new blade. His face is so like when he calculates troop movements or supply shipments. But she sees him swallow, once, and then nod, and again, more forcefully. An insouciant grin lifts the corner of his mouth, where the scar bisects his upper lip.

“Is that all? I’ve overheard much, much stranger from my troops after a night spent at the Blooming Rose. I can’t say I have ever tried it, but if you like…”

Evelyn wishes she had words for how grateful she is for this, for his _trust_ in her. But words are failing her, now, though the effervescent daring that she felt on the way over from her quarters is back and suffusing her whole body, as if his willingness to let her _try_ has uncorked her desire like a bottle of fine Orlesian champagne. Instead of speaking, she kisses him, once, twice, softly before nipping at his bottom lip. He opens to the press of her mouth, allowing her to twine one arm around his neck and maneuver him back against the bedframe. His lips curve against hers in a smile as he tastes her, murmuring, “Dorian’s Tevinter reserve?”

She laughs softly and nods before her tongue sweeps into the heat of his mouth. He shudders at her fingernails scraping lightly against his shoulders, his nape, his back.

And then she pushes, lightly, so that he falls to a seated position against the mattress and the rumpled quilts, and Evelyn cups his face in her hands and kisses him, hard.

She closes the distance between them, pressing her lips to his cheekbone, whispers them over his brow, and he offers his hands to her.

Blushing despite herself, Evelyn loops the silken scarlet around his wrists, once, twice, and a third time, tying the ends.  Climbing atop his lap, her thighs flush to the outside of his own, she kisses him again, slipping her tongue between his lips, letting it twine with his as she feels him harden against her backside. Scraping her teeth along his neck, she takes advantage of his closed eyes to fasten the remaining length of scarlet cloth around the headboard.  

“Test it,” she says, fighting the grin blooming on her lips at Cullen’s surprised expression.

“Wicked woman,” he bites out, flexing his arms and finding the fabric strong.

She rolls her hips slowly back against his still-clothed cock and whispers, “wickeder all the time. Tell me you want me.”

“Maker, _yes_ ,” he shudders, hips rising to meet hers, “I want you out of those clothes.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” she says, pressing a kiss to the divot between his collarbones. Slowly, Evelyn climbs off of his lap and sashays to the foot of the bed, swaying her hips as she goes. She bends at the waist to unlace her shoes, and peeping over her shoulder, she sees his tongue dart out to wet his lips in anticipation.

Loosening the laces one cross at a time, she pulls off her boots and slowly, deliberately sets them next to his where they lie discarded beside the dresser. A slow spin and, facing his prone form, Evelyn passes the top button of her blouse through the hole, and then the one below it, and another, until the fabric hangs open, and Cullen’s shoulders roll against the tension of the silk. He is _perfection_ lying on the bed, the candlelight caressing his skin, shadows tracing the muscular lines of his arms, the planes of his pectorals and, her current favorite, the v that narrows and disappears into the waistband of his trousers. Evelyn presses her thighs together against the slick arousal gathering there, and sighs, “Cullen…”

He growls, low and deep where he lies on the bed, “Don’t you stop now.” 

Well, he seems to be enjoying himself as well, Evelyn thinks, and the remnants of doubt, of embarrassment, of feeling _foolish_ acting as if she was some femme fatale dissipate like morning dew under the heat of his gaze.

“I thought I was in control this evening, _Commander_ ,” she purrs, slipping the unbuttoned shirt off of her shoulders, leaving her in just her leggings and a sinfully sheer black bra. Evelyn sees his eyes widen; he is used to her serviceable white breastband.

Cullen runs the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, and his throat constricts when he swallows.

“That’s new.”

“I bought it last time we were in Val Royeaux.”

Slowly, she dips her digits below the waistband of her trousers, winding her long fingers in the laces at the front. With a few tugs and a slow, rolling shimmy of her hips, the leather pools at her feet.

“It’s a matching set,” she murmurs, plucking gently at the satin ties holding together the thin, silken pieces of her smalls.

Cullen’s broad shoulders press up and away from the mattress and the crimson satin ripples as the muscles in his arms do, flexing beneath golden skin as he rasps, “Sweet Maker, I’ll buy you everything they sell.”

Laughing lowly, Evelyn slowly climbs over his prone form, pressing her naked skin against his hips as she skims her fingers, feather-light over his cotton-clad thighs, the peaks of his hip-bones, the darkening trail of coarse hair that leads her fingertips _down_ to the already impressive bulge tenting his trousers.

“Do you want these off?” she purrs, tracing the line of his cock where it strains against the fabric.

He nods, hard, once, and Evelyn notes the sweat beading at his temples.

“Say it,” she whispers, scraping her nails up and along his length.

“Yes, yes.”

Leaning down, letting her silk-clad breasts brush lightly against his bare chest, which earns her a growl, she draws his earlobe into her mouth. As her teeth edge along the sensitive skin, Evelyn moans softly, “‘Yes’ _what_ , my love?”

He bites his lip, and the twitch in his mouth draws his scar white over his teeth. Eyes flashing with a mixture of arousal and irritation, Cullen grits out, “yes, _please_.”

“Good boy,” she purrs, scraping her teeth along his strong jaw, tasting the salt of his sweat and desire, the floral remnants of his shaving soap.  Slowly, deliberately, she hooks her fingers in the waistband of his trousers and pulls the fabric down to his knees but not off; she is supposed to be the one in control tonight, after all. Cullen’s length springs free, arcing against his belly and the thatch of honey-dark hair at its base; he hisses as the air caresses his oversensitive skin. Arousal beads already at the tip of his cock, and Evelyn licks her lips.    

His hips thrust against the mattress, seeking friction, and she drags her nails hard down the planes of his chest, down the ridges of his abdominals, leaving thin, red lines in her wake, and Cullen twists hard against his bonds.

“Patience.”

“Wicked,” he groans.

“How wicked would you like?”

“All of it,” he hisses as her hand cups his length.

Crawling up his body, Evelyn plants her knees on either side of his head.

“I want your mouth on me,” she murmurs, pulling at the black ribbons holding her smalls together, letting the lacy fabric part. As she drops the scraps beside the bed, Cullen’s breath hitches high and tight.

“Sweet Maker, you are _soaking_.”

“Mmm,” she hums, lowering herself to his waiting mouth and letting her forehead rest on the drywall. He sucks her lips into his scalding heat of his mouth, and Evelyn’s fingers scrape. And then his tongue rolls against her clit, and when he flattens against her pearl her hips jump hard against the heat of him.

“Yes, Cullen,” she hisses when his teeth scrape against her, when his tongue spears hard inside her. Evelyn sinks, craving fiction, forcing his mouth harder onto her sparking skin, into her scalding heat. Her thighs press hard against his ears and she is shaking, but he doesn’t seem to mind, his tongue unrelenting against her burning flesh.

And then his lips close around her bud and he _sucks_ , and she comes undone, nails gouging long lines into the paint as electric hot tendrils flare up the length of her spine and down to where his mouth remains, coaxing her through the cresting waves, the white slowly receding to the edges of her vision.

Evelyn pants out steady, warm streams of air, running a hand through the auburn locks which are now damp with sweat. Scooting back, her wet cunt, still eager, meets the incredible hardness of his cock. Without preamble, she sinks onto his hot length, just an inch, until the head of his cock just dips within her molten heat, and his teeth grit hard, as she stays there, rolling her hips in a sinuous circle around his thick crown.

“Woman, you’re torture,” he moans, head thrown back against the pillow, his golden curls plastered to his sweat-dampened skin.

Evelyn stills, and takes pity. Reaching behind her, she cups his balls in her hand and squeezes gently, pressing them between her fingers until his hips buck.

Dropping further with a slow, arcing roll, she murmurs, “You know what you have to say.”

“Please,” Cullen rasps, and she lets her thighs go limp and gravity take her, spearing her on his length so that his hipbones meet her thighs bruisingly hard. Her hot, fluttering walls part against his intruding length and it is almost too much, on the precipice of pain, but the bright, flame-spark of hurt so swiftly becomes pleasure that she gasps, open-mouthed, and the air scalds her lungs as her hips roll against him, as she rises and falls, rippling around his hot, hard length.

“You’re so _perfect_ ,” he groans, arms flexing against the crimson silk and muscles rolling as she ruts desperately against him.

“Tell me,” Evelyn gasps as she rises, and Cullen’s eyes go black at the sight of her arousal coating his length as it presses back within her heat.

“You’re so tight,” he moans, hands twisting in the fabric binding his arms to the bed, “so hot, so wonderful. Evelyn, I-”

“Your cock is perfection, Cullen,” Evelyn whispers, seating him fully within her and tilting forward so that his length presses against her clit with each thrust, “so thick, so hard. Come for me- _oh_!”

Somehow he has managed to get his knees up and his feet flat against the mattress. With his new leverage he thrusts and she gasps, unable to be angry at his insubordination as the ridges of his cock press perfectly within her, rutting hard.

Palming her own breast, Evelyn attempts to keep up the rhythm, and then Cullen’s back bows, arcing up and away from the mattress, growling as Evelyn quakes at his scalding length pulsing against her walls, at his seed spurting hard and hot within her. It is _perfect_ , the way he comes undone, his golden curls matted to his forehead, sweat shining on his cheeks and pectorals.

She shakes, driving him into her again, once, once again, and thrice, and then Evelyn lets the warm, sparking waves of her orgasm break over her sweat-slicked skin, rippling up the notches of her spine and down her thighs, curling her toes against the mattress.

When she pulls at the crimson fabric holding his wrists against the headboard, he moves so quickly that she can barely blink. But suddenly she is beneath him, and he presses his lips against hers, his tongue spearing within her mouth, teeth scraping over her lower lip and tasting the wine still on her breath.

With his lips to her ear he whispers, “Turnabout is fair play, my love. I think I will be keeping this silk for now.”

She will have to thank Dorian. 

* * *

Kudos, constructive criticism, comments always welcome! 

 


End file.
